


The Final Gambit

by were_lemur



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode: s04e17-e18 The End of Time, Gen, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/were_lemur/pseuds/were_lemur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "the End of Time," Rassilon tries to blackmail the Doctor into opening the time-lock by torturing the Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: rape used as a form of torture.

He was bleeding out, hemorrhaging life-energy, but his only regret was that he wouldn't survive long enough to end Rassilon for good. To pay him back for centuries of madness and manipulation.

His consciousness was flickering in and out with his body, and his vision was narrowing at the edges, but he managed to keep his focus on Rassilon, on scraping together enough energy for one last bolt.

He didn't feel himself falling, just found himself sprawled on the shaking ground. His eyes drifted closed -- but he could still see, through eyelids that had gone translucent. He watched, his vision fading, as Rassilon approached, moving carefully. Painfully, he thought, and smiled to himself.

It wasn't sufficient vengeance, but as it looked like it was all he'd get, he supposed he'd have to be satisfied. It wasn't as if this body had the capability to regenerate.

At least the Doctor had escaped. And now, the Master realized, he would be free too. Free of the drums, free of the hunger, free of the endless, desperate struggle to survive. He called up an image of the Doctor, to hold on to as the end came, and waited for the last scraps of his consciousness to dissolve.

But then metal fingers closed on his throat. Burning cold, freezing hot, Rassilon's glove shoved energy back into his body, jolting him back to full consciousness. He started to rub his fingers together to build up energy, but before he could create more than a spark, Rassilon let go and backhanded him across the face.

The Master grunted in pain and twisted away, tasting blood. Before he got very far, Rassilon got a hand on the scruff of his neck and pinned him, face-down. He got a close-up view of cracked and scorched tiles before Rassilon pulled his head up again, and slammed him down, stunning him.

"Bind him!" Rassilon ordered, and he felt his hands pulled behind his back. He had the moment's thought of slipping his bonds, but then his elbows were pulled back and bound, putting a painful pressure on his shoulders. He wouldn't be escaping that way. He could generate all the energy bolts he wanted; his angle of fire was limited enough to be useless.

"Get him up," Rassilon ordered, and a pair of guards hurried to obey. They pulled him painfully to his feet and slammed him against the wall. Pride kept him standing when his legs would have folded beneath him. 

"Turn him around," Rassilon ordered. The guards complied again. They pressed him back against the wall, hard enough to send fresh pain through his strained shoulders, but he glared his defiance as Rassilon stalked toward him.

He saw Rassilon's gloved hand curl into a fist, and the wind-up to the blow. He relaxed his body to roll with the punches, first forehand, then backhand. The third blow was to his stomach; it sent a jolt up to his shoulders and would have doubled him over if the guards hadn't been holding him up.

He forced his head up and a smirk to his lips, though he didn't trust his voice.

Rassilon gestured to the guards. "Bring him to my quarters."

For the first time, the Master felt genuine fear. Rassilon had the rest of the Time Lords intimidated; the Master couldn't imagine them objecting to his execution. But even they might balk at watching his torture. With no witnesses, there would be nothing to keep a check on Rassilon's fury.

He was helpless as he was marched along the corridors; dragging him to his feet only put more pressure on his shoulders. The gaurds brought him to opulent quarters that seemed too luxurious for wartime. Rassilon pulled a decorative cord from one of the draperies and tied it around the Master's neck, loose enough that he could breathe easily. "I don't want you passing out on me," he said, and then slung the free end over one of the sconces. He yanked it, pulling the Master up so that he had to balance on his toes, and tied it off.

"Leave us," he said. "And don't come in, no matter what you hear."

One of the guards swallowed; they both hurried away, leaving the Master with his captor.

The Master watched as Rassilon pulled out a recording device and set it to hover, its lens pointing at him. "I've set up a psychic link to the Doctor's TARDIS. He'll be able to see everything that happens here. But unless he opens the time-lock, he won't be able to do anything about it."

"He won't open the time-lock," the Master said. "Even if it means watching me die."

"You seem to have forgotten; I have access to the Matrix, to the looms. When this substandard body of yours disintegrates, I can weave you a new one. Just think about it." He grabbed the Master's jaw in his metal grip, and tilted his face up. "I can kill you thirteen times, and thirteen times after that. How many times will the Doctor watch you die, screaming in agony, before he can no longer resist coming to your aid?"

Rather than trying to make sense of his own emotions on the subject, the Master kicked out at Rassilon, but the Lord President stepped back, out of range, then lunged in and punched the Master in the jaw, hard enough to stun him. He ripped open the Master's hoodie and shirt in one quick movement, and shoved them back over the Master's shoulders. "I want the Doctor to see every bruise, every drop of blood, every broken bone," he said.

And then the beating began in earnest.

The Master soon lost track of the individual blows. He was barely aware of it when Rassilon untied the rope and let him collapse in a heap, and kicked him a few times for good measure. Finally the pummeling ceased, and Rassilon crouched beside him. "Well, My Lord Master ... do you have anything to say?"

He was well aware of the camera, recording everything for the Doctor; that knowledge gave him the strength to steady his voice. "Amateurish," he said. "Overly emotional."

"I know what I think I'll do. I'll make a collar just for you. One that transmits pain signals at the touch of a button."

"What is it with megalomaniacs and collars?"

Rassilon ignored him. "I'll put the collar on you and I'll just turn it on and leave it. See how long it takes you to die from agony alone."

"He won't let you destroy the universe." The Master tried to keep his voice casual, but he suspected he just sounded resigned.

"Not even when you're calling for him, begging him to make the pain stop?"

"I have no doubt that you'll make me scream, sooner rather than later later," the Master said. "But you will _not_ make me beg."

"I might," Rassilon said, "take that as a challenge."

"I don't know why you're bothering with threats."

After a long moment, Rassilon smiled. The Master, who knew a lot about madness, couldn't fail to recognize it on the Lord President's face. His chuckle sent chills down the Master's spine.

"You're right," Rassilon said. "There's no point to wasting my time with threats, when I could be giving a concrete demonstration of my intentions."

Maybe this would teach him to keep his mouth shut.

"What," Rassilon mused, "would bring the Doctor running fastest? I could light you on fire ... "

"It wouldn't be the first time he left me to burn."

Rassilon studied him for a long moment, and then a grin cracked his face. "What else wouldn't be the first time?" He reached out and stroked the Master's cheek with his metal-gloved fingers, then tilted his face up toward the camera, playing for his audience. "Did the Doctor ever have you in this body?"

The Master didn't bother answering; Rassilon would do what he was going to do.

After a few seconds, Rassilon got tired of waiting for the response that never came. He grabbed a handful of the Master's hair in his ungloved hand and used his gloved hand to grip the improvised collar, and dragged the Master across the room.

The Master began to rub his hands together. If Rassilon was going to be foolish enough to put any particularly delicate parts of his anatomy in harm's way, he wasn't going to miss the opportunity. By the time Rassilon threw him face-down on the bed, he had a good charge worked up. He listened to Rassilon's steps, and waited until he was in position.

He focused his will, and blasted energy at Rassilon. The Lord President's cry brought a smile to his face, and he heard the sound of a body falling. He rubbed his hands together, even as he staggered to his feet. If he could just get his hands unbound, he could take Rassilon as his hostage -- 

But Rassilon had already rolled away. Before the Master could reach him, he pulled what looked like a short tube from the desk, and aimed it.

There was no sign that it had fired, but every muscle in the Master's body lost strength. He dropped in a heap, and winced as his abused shoulders took another blow. The effect passed off within seconds, but that was more than enough time for Rassilon to cross the room. His kick doubled the Master over; he was still gasping for breath when Rassilon threw him face-down on the bed. He started to rub his hands together, but Rassilon batted at him, almost playfully. "None of that."

He took hold of the Master's hands, and began to bend one of his fingers back. And kept bending until the finger broke.

The Master cursed into the mattress.

Rassilon calmly moved on to the next finger, and the next, until all of them were painfully twisted, "I trust," he said when he was finished, "that you'll behave yourself from now on?"

Lying still and quiet seemed the safest bet. The Master pressed his forehead into the bed, and concentrated on his breathing. The drums were muffled by the presence of the other Time Lords, but they were still there; he let them wrap around his mind as Rassilon undid his belt and his jeans and pulled them down, exposing him.

"This angle hardly shows you to your best advantage," Rassilon said. "I want the Doctor to see the cost of his delay written on your face."

He winced as Rassilon grabbed his shoulder to roll him over, but inside he felt a wave of exultation. The Lord President wouldn't do something so epically stupid, would he? The outrageous plan taking shape in his mind let him ride out the pain when his weight came down on his broken hands. He rolled his eyes back and sagged, and didn't fight when Rassilon stripped him of his boots and jeans, and if he whimpered a bit, it was just for verisimilitude's sake.

He shivered at the touch of metal fingers on his inner thigh, and tried to squirm away. But Rassilon didn't give him a chance. He lifted the Master's legs and pushed them apart, and with no lubrication, no preparation, shoved himself in.

It was all the Master could do to keep his scream behind clamped jaws. He tried to kick loose, he couldn't bear it any more, but moving only made the pain worse. Rassilon pulled back and thrust in again, and set a punishing pace. A particularly brutal thrust ripped something open inside him and then he _did_ scream until he emptied his lungs.

He drew his breath in a sob, and began chanting, "onetwothreefour onetwothreefour," letting the sound of drums flood his mind, using them to buffer the pain just enough without dissociating, because he had to stay conscious for the one slim chance at freedom.

Rassilon laughed. "Even now, you can't escape the drums."

"Onetwothreefour," he whispered, like a mantra, or maybe a prayer. Wrapped in the drums, he went limp beneath Rassilon, and gazed up into the middle distance. He was only vaguely aware of the robot camera floating above him, of the Doctor who must be watching, somewhere, because he would never be able to turn away.

Rassilon's thrusts grew faster, more jerky, and he grunted and slumped forward, panting.

It was the chance the Master had been waiting for.

He used the last of his strength to arch up and headbutt Rassilon, using his mind as a weapon. He drove into the Lord President's consciousness, forcing his way through mental defenses blunted by orgasm. Rassilon tried to counter him, but this was hardly the first time the Master had stolen a body.

Before, he'd only been fighting to survive. Now, he was desperate to escape an eternity of torture. That desperation let him sink deep into Rassilon's mind, and when Rassilon tried to surround him, he slipped past the walls, deep into the heart of everything that was Rassilon; his genius, his passion, his corruption, his lust for control.

_We're not so different, you and I,_ he thought. _Except I'm better at this._

The Master could feel Rassilon's fear, his shock, his disbelief that his broken prisoner had managed an effective counterattack. He was the one begging, now; _Can't we talk about this? Work out a mutually beneficial arrangement?_

In his mind's eye, Rassilon's consciousness was a small,pulsing ball no bigger than his fist. The Master reached out his hand, and snuffed it out.

When he opened his eyes, he was staring down at his own body as its final breath rattled from its lungs. He reached out his gauntleted hand and focused his will; the battered corpse vanished in a coruscation of blue light.

He straightened, and went to clean himself up, tapping his hand idly against his thigh. He'd have to remember not to do that in front of the rest of the Time Lords until _after_ he'd consolidated his power.

He caught the movement of the camera out of the corner of his eye. It wouldn't do to have the Doctor show up to kill him in mistaken revenge for his own murder. He snatched the hovering robot out of the air.

"Lord President of Gallifrey," he said. "I think I like the sound of that, don't you, Doctor? Sounds so much more impressive than, oh, Prime Minister of Great Britain. Don't you think?"

He blew the Doctor a kiss, and shut the camera off.

He had plans to make.


End file.
